Tin Soldier
by orsumfenix
Summary: You're Number Six, and you should be strong, so how come all you can think about is how badly you've screwed up?


_**Ages ago I wrote a fic about Nine post-FoF. This is Six's one, as some people suggested. It's not very long, but I wanted to make it short but filled with impact. Hope I succeeded! **_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Lorien Legacies, though I wish I did. Enjoy and review! **_

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Your name is Number Six (which is a stupid name, to be honest, but one that sums you up wholly and completely) and you are wracked with guilt. Guilt, yeah, because while your friend was _dying _you just lay on the floor with your head spinning and pounding and didn't make a _single move _to help. But not just guilt.

_Shame. _

You're _ashamed _(completely, _utterly _ashamed) that you, (the 'Strong One' – how come you weren't strong then), didn't do _anything _to help. You're _ashamed _that you didn't fight your way through the pain the way you promised yourself that you would (and the way that you have done _so many _times before – why didn't you now?). And, most of all, you're _ashamed _that your training (hard and rigorous – what was the point in even _learning _how to fight if you don't?) abandoned you when you needed it most.

When you think back, you see a blurry world of green, clashing with the black and red clouding your vision (anger and pain, merging into one, though you still didn't do anything about it), and hear the angered shouts and desperate pleas of your friends, your _family_, that you didn't do _anything _to help even though that was the whole damn _point _of you being there.

You had a role, on that island – the role of the protector, and you failed in your duty (which is the worst thing that you could possibly have done).

(Because that's what this has only ever been about, really – playing the part of the dutiful soldier, protecting the others and making sure Lorien lives on. You're not stupid, you know you're only the muscle – but at least you could have done some good that way, or so you thought.) (Fat lot of good _you _did.)

The others in the motel room with you, they feel guilty, too, you're sure, but at least they both _tried _to help. And what did you do, _Six_? Did you help, oh mighty warrior? What strength did _you _put forward, lying on the forest floor while a new brand _burned _(hot and searing, agony – you deserve it) itself onto your ankle?

The answer is nothing.

You did _nothing. _

You. Did. Nothing.

And that realisation, that simple truth of three words (how can three words make such a horrible internal battle rage in your mind?) is enough to tear you apart at the seams. Eight's gone, he's never coming back, and he went _saving someone's life_. He _helped _everyone. He helped _you_, in a way, even though right now it feels as though he's ruined your life.

He's such an idiot.

(And it kills you to know that that sentence should be in past tense.)

If you're entirely honest with yourself, you're kind of _jealous _of Eight (it's a horrible feeling, clawing up at your chest and clutching your heart, just like when you look at Sarah). Because _Eight _didn't abandon his duty in the battlefield. Because _Eight _wasn't useless, a broken toy, tin soldier, a watch that won't tick. Because _Eight_, _**Eight**_, won't have to deal with shattered reflections and burning eyes in the mirror for the rest of his life.

(Even though you're pretty sure that, if this war can take the life of someone as kind as him, then you've got no hope of making it through.) (You're not worthy of survival.)

Because, really, _that's _your big flaw – Envy. You _envy _Eight for being the hero. You _envy _John for so obviously being Pittacus, even when he's practically sailed through life compared to you. You envy _Sarah_, the _princess _of the story (you're not sure what you are – the pining love interest, maybe?), who has the heart of John and has actually managed to make a _difference _in his life.

You _shouldn't _be envious of anyone – jealousy's never gotten you anywhere – but you just can't _help _it. You can't help but _want _their lives, anyone's but your own, because everyone else did something to help.

You can't look Marina in the eyes (oh, Marina – that's another person you failed), or Nine, or even your own goddamn _reflection_ (and isn't _that _a joke?!)

You're Number Six, and you should be strong, so how come all you can think about is how badly you've screwed up?

(Can't save your friends. Can't even save yourself.

How can you possibly hope to save the world?)

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**_Hope you enjoyed, and please review! _**


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